


It goes like this, the catch, the grip

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hurt With Minimal Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rape, Rape Recovery, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Victim Blaming, Violence, Whump, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24134593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Written forthisprompt from the Good Omens Kink Meme.Crowley goes to a party in Hell, and has a traumatic encounter with a powerful demon. Two-thousand years later, Aziraphale tries to understand.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/Other(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 218
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme Anonymous





	1. 33 A.D.

**Author's Note:**

> MIND THE TAGS, FOLKS. This fic contains explicit descriptions of sexual assault, bones being broken, and traumatic flashbacks. Proceed with caution; this one hurt to write.

The Prophet of Nazareth was dead, and in Hell they were celebrating.

Crowley wasn’t entirely sure _why_ they were celebrating. He’d been sent up to tempt the young man away from martyrdom by showing him the kingdoms of the world; the fact that the poor fellow had gone to his execution ought to mean Hell had failed in its plot. Still, the Dark Council had come out declaring it a moral victory, a clear-cut case of humanity’s violent impulses triumphing over peace. 

To Crowley, the whole thing smacked of last-minute public-relations spin. Then again, for all he knew Heaven was in a similar quandary. The angel- _Aziraphale_ , he remembered, _his name’s Aziraphale_ \- had certainly seemed unsure of what good the prophet’s suffering was supposed to do the world.

Call it ineffable, if you wanted. For the demons in Hell, it was an excuse for a party.

The dust of Golgotha was still clinging to Crowley’s robes and hair when he came Below and found the festivities in full swing. From the slums of Dis to the Dark Council’s palace, Hell rumbled and crashed with discordant music. The streets and hallways were packed with demons cavorting, gyrating, brawling. The ground beneath Crowley’s sandals was sticky with blood and ichor, the smell of smoke acrid in his nostrils. In truth, he’d have preferred to give this whole thing a miss. The execution, and his conversation with the angel, had left him unsettled in a way that called for quiet and solitude, two things that you really couldn’t get in Hell. Still, one was expected to keep up appearances. With that in mind, Crowley moved unnoticed through the revelers in the streets and made his way to the imposing iron castle where the nobilities of Hell would be mingling. Slip in, be seen by the right people, and get out. Maybe try his hand at this “sleep” thing he’d been hearing about. It sounded nice.

He entered the great hall and accepted a cup of wine from a servant with a tray chained to their wrist. He took a sip and barely restrained himself from spitting it out. It appeared that Hell had picked up the concept of fermentation from the humans, but hadn’t bothered to learn anything about terroir or refinement; the stuff was vinegar, damn-near undrinkable. Crowley held onto the cup anyway, all the better to give the illusion that he was having a good time. Pretending to sip from it, drifting from one clutch of demons to the next, shaking the right hands. _Hastur, good to see you, congrats on the promotion_. _Asmodeus, doing something new with the horns, I see, looks great._ _Lilith, it’s been simply too long, how’re the offspring?_

“Great party. Pity the drinks are shit.”

Crowley jumped at the voice near his ear and turned around. The demon who had spoken was leaning against a wall, surveying the room with hooded eyes the color of lightning- no irises, just piercing blue-white from corner to corner, with slitted black pupils in the middle. Thick black hair to his broad shoulders, tanned skin with just a touch of gray to his pallor, and a grin full of very white, very sharp teeth. He looked familiar, and he was drinking something from a tarnished silver goblet.

“Um. Yes, well,” Crowley coughed, trying to put a name to the face and adjust his decorum accordingly. “Does the job, at least, right?”

“Depends,” the stranger answered, waggling his goblet in Crowley’s direction. “Me, I’ve been to enough of these things to bring my own refreshments. Here, try some.”

He held the drink out to Crowley, who hesitated. There was something in the demon’s bright smile that made the hairs on Crowley’s neck stand up, something charged and dangerous.

“Oh, no thank you,” he demurred. “Would hate to deplete your supply. But thanks…um…”

“You’re Crawly, aren’t you? From Eden?”

“It’s actually Crowley, now,” he corrected, and then inwardly winced at his mistake. There was a good chance that this demon was important. He didn’t want to risk offending him.

The stranger raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well. _Crowley._ I’m Azazel.” 

_Shit_. Crowley did know that name. Azazel was one of Lucifer’s old confidantes from Heaven; he still had a great deal of influence over the Dark Council.

“Of course,” Crowley stammered. “It’s an honor to meet you. Er. Didn’t recognize you, you know, without the twelve wings.”

“I’m pleased to meet you as well, Crowley. Now, I insist, share a drink with me.” He held out the goblet once more.

Crowley forced a companionable smile and took the goblet in his fingers, raised it to his lips. The liquid inside was the color of blood, but sweet, like honey, and a little smoky. He made a small noise of surprise at the taste, and Azazel grinned once more.

“You like it? It’s a recipe of my own making.”

“Yes. Very good, thank you.” Crowley handed the goblet back as the taste of the wine seeped into his tongue. 

“A toast, then. To our Glorious Master, Satan.” As he spoke Azazel took the goblet back and raised it. Crowley looked into his own cup of wine and saw that it had changed to the same substance he had just sampled.

“Hail Satan,” Crowley agreed hurriedly, and then, following Azazel’s lead, brought his drink up and drained it. The wine was thick in his throat, burned in his belly, and he had to force himself once again to smile as Azazel licked his lips.

“Enjoy the party,” the white-eyed demon purred, then pushed himself up off the wall and sauntered away.

It wasn’t long after that that Crowley began to feel strange. His vision got blurred and grayed-out at the edges. His thoughts grew muddled. He found himself, in the middle of an animated discussion with Ligur, trying to manifest fire to prove a point, and realizing that he couldn’t. His miraculous powers seemed to be on the fritz, and while normally this would have made him extremely nervous, in his addled state it just struck him as odd.

He wandered away from the main party, hoping to encounter some other refreshments or a quiet place to maybe lie down and clear his head. The rooms off the great hall were quieter but by no means unoccupied. Demons were clustered in pairs or in trios, and from the open doors Crowley could hear muffled grunts and groans, the slap of flesh-on-flesh. Other smaller, more intimate sounds.

Crowley felt his stomach roll over, and turned to leave. He’d seen enough, he decided, and had _been_ seen enough. Time to go, find a nice rock to crawl under and wait until things quieted down, maybe present for another assignment on Earth when it was safe to do so, but for now just getting away from here would have to do…

Whether Azazel materialized out of thin air in front of him or had just been lurking at the end of the hallway, Crowley didn’t know. He didn’t register the other demon’s presence until his strong hands were on Crowley’s shoulders, holding him firmly in place.

“Here now, pretty thing, where are you running off to? The party’s just begun.”

“Azazel! Um, great to see you again, thanks for the wine, but, well, I’m afraid there’s a few other parties I meant to drop in on tonight, so I really have to be going…”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re _very_ much in demand, Crowley,” Azazel said. He spun Crowley around and draped an arm over his shoulders, steering him toward one of the open rooms. “But I was rather hoping we’d get more of a chance to talk. I’m a big fan of your work, you know.”

“Right,” Crowley answered, trying to slip out of Azazel’s grip. “Why don’t we go back to the great hall and-“

“No, I think here is fine.” 

There was a vicious shove between his shoulder blades, almost a punch, and Crowley pitched forward into the dimly-lit room, his feet tangling together as he went. The stone floor was scattered with rugs and pillows, so he was able to avoid breaking his nose when he landed face-first, but he guessed that was where his good luck was going to run out.

There were other demons in the large, echoing space, he noticed, entangled in pairings of their own. Crowley saw a head bobbing in a lap in one corner, two pairs of legs and wings twined together in another. They watched him with wary amusement, eyes glowing from the torches on the walls.

He rolled onto his back, panic now buzzing in his veins. Why was he so slow? He reached for his powers, to try and shape-shift, or turn invisible, or _anything_ , but nothing happened. Above him he heard Azazel chuckle darkly.

“Don’t look so scared, pretty thing. This doesn’t have to hurt.”

He joined Crowley on the floor, shoving him back into the pillows with a hand on his chest. Crowley struggled, tried to kick out with his legs. His limbs felt like they were filled with sand. Azazel ran his tongue over his teeth and began to tug at Crowley’s robes.

“ _Such_ a tempting creature. I can only imagine how many humans have damned themselves to have a go at you.”

Crowley shook his head, both in response to Azazel’s words and the way his hands were exposing more and more of his skin. Is that what Hell thought he did? Seduce humans, whore himself out to them in exchange for their souls? Didn’t he get credit for being a little more creative than _that_?

“Stop struggling, I just want to have a look. See what the humans are getting when you’re not flaunting yourself down here.”

Azazel straddled Crowley’s hips, gathered up two handfuls of black fabric and tore. The muslin shredded like cobwebs; he was strong, too strong for Crowley to fight, even if he hadn’t been drugged. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to stop himself from struggling. Maybe Azazel really did just want to look, or just wanted to scare him. Maybe this could be over quickly, if Crowley just cooperated.

A low, satisfied hum escaped Azazel’s throat as he raked Crowley’s body with his eyes; the long line of his neck, the planes and angles of his chest and ribs, the sinewy muscles in his legs. His hand caressed Crowley’s face, gave his throat a gentle squeeze before slowly trailing down his stomach. 

At the touch of Azazel’s fingers Crowley gave an involuntary shudder and tried to squirm away. His movements were met with an iron grip on the hair at the back of his neck, wrenching his head back. 

“You want to do this the hard way, Crowley?” Azazel hissed into his ear.

“N-no,” Crowley whined, trying not to flinch even as the feel of Azazel’s breath on his skin made his stomach roll with disgust.

“No? You’ll behave yourself, then?”

“Please.” Crowley’s eyes darted frantically about to the room’s other occupants, desperately hoping for some sort of rescue. “Just let me go, please, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, for anything, just-“

His pleas were cut off by Azazel sinking his teeth into his neck with a feral growl. The big demon bit down on the sensitive flesh and tugged, like he was trying to rip Crowley’s throat open. Crowley screamed and shoved frantically at Azazel’s chest; it was like trying to move a marble slab with a fingertip.

Azazel let go and straightened up above him, looking down on him with cold, pitiless eyes.

“The hard way, then.”

He drew back his arm and backhanded Crowley across the cheek, hard enough to snap his head to the side and leave his ears ringing. Somewhere far away, Crowley heard a bark of laughter.

He felt Azazel’s hands grab his thighs and wrench his legs apart. He couldn’t help but resist and was rewarded with another crack across the jaw. From the corners, where the other demons were watching, he registered muted sounds of approval.

“See, I _knew_ I was right about you. Why give yourself such a pretty cunt, if you don’t want to share it with anybody?”

Rough fingers ghosted between his legs, stroking the soft ginger hair there, probing gently at his folds. Crowley sobbed with fear and tried to close his legs, tried to roll onto his side, anything to get away, but every time he moved Azazel’s hands closed over his limbs and moved them right back where he wanted them.

“Just want to see, Crowley, don’t make such a fuss. Really, think of your reputation.”

For all the menace in his hands, Azazel’s voice was chillingly calm and reasonable. And he had a point, didn’t he? Could Crowley really afford to be seen whingeing like this if he didn’t want a target on his back for the rest of his days?

Once again he forced himself to hold still. He squeezed his eyes shut, face burning with shame, as Azazel rubbed at the tender flesh of his exposed sex. It was humiliating, but it didn’t hurt, not really. If he just kept quiet and held still, he could get through this.

“You _are_ tempting,” Azazel sighed, reaching up to run a hand through Crowley’s hair, spread out over the pillows. “I bet this is your favorite little game, isn’t it? Pretending to be some innocent thing until they can’t _help_ but ravish you?”

“No, no, it’s not like that, I swear-“

“Shhh, it’s fine, gorgeous, I won’t make you beg.” A hand closed over Crowley’s throat once more, hard enough this time to make breathing difficult. Azazel’s other hand went back between his legs. For a moment there was only that gentle stroking. Then two fingers pushed into him without warning, and Crowley’s hips gave a startled jolt. The demon’s fingers were thick and coarse enough to scrape him on the inside, and Azazel laughed as Crowley cried out from the shock of it.

“So _sensitive_! Maybe it’s not an act. Maybe you really are…untouched.” The fingers working inside Crowley _curled_ , and the trapped demon let out a broken whimper. “If that’s the case, well…it’s too bad you can’t miracle yourself to be a little more…prepared, let’s say.”

“Please,” Crowley whispered. “You said you’d just look, please, let me go.”

“Oh, hush. If anything, this proves how good you are at your job, doesn’t it? I mean, the party of the _century_ is happening out there-“ Azazel punctuated his words with another cruel twist of his fingers, “-and I’m in _here_ …willing to _miss out_ for a chance to _fuck_ you.”

“No, Azazel, I don’t want to, _please_ -“

“ _I_ do,” Azazel growled. The hands pinning Crowley down were withdrawn, and he slitted his eyes open, frightened but also desperately hoping it had all been a joke or a test, that he’d be let up now with nothing more than a sore face and some teasing to live down at the next staff meeting.

Instead he saw Azazel loosening his trousers and pushing them down past his hips. Revealed beneath them was a horrifying male member, blunt-headed and as thick as Crowley’s wrist. At the sight of it, Crowley’s fragile composure completely shattered. He tried to scramble away, back and elbows slipping on the slick fabric of the pillows beneath him. He thrashed when Azazel grabbed his hips and dragged him back, tried to scratch at the demon’s wrists, all in vain. Azazel lined up his cock at Crowley’s entrance and then, gently but firmly, seized his scrabbling hands.

“My advice, Crowley? Try to enjoy it. It’s not going to be the last time this happens, if this is how you insist on presenting yourself.”

He laced their fingers together and pinned Crowley’s hands above his head. At the same time he snapped his hips forward, burying his cock halfway into Crowley’s cunt while the trapped demon gasped in pain.

Crowley had been wearing a human form for roughly four millennia. That was more than enough time to get curious and try a few things, with a few different people. But never in Hell, never with another demon. Always up on Earth, where he could fall back on his powers if things went south, where he could close his eyes and focus on the pleasure and think about-

- _the angel, his name’s Aziraphale and he sheltered me from the rain_ -

-whatever he wanted. That wasn’t possible here, with the tearing pain and his attacker’s self-satisfied voice dripping down on him.

“Oh- _Heaven_ , that’s good,” Azazel gasped, settling in with a few deep, punishing thrusts. 

Pinioned by the hands and hips as he was, all Crowley could do was squirm helplessly as he was forced open. 

“Squeeze my hands all you want, pretty thing. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Still, he had to keep still, if he kept quiet and took it it would be over soon, if Azazel would just stop talking and let Crowley retreat somewhere deep inside his head he could get through this…

Crowley felt lips on his, felt a tongue nudging his mouth open, his muffled protests being lapped up like stray drops of wine.

“You’re… _so tight_ …” Azazel was slowly rocking inside him now, punctuating his words with soft bites to Crowley’s jaw and lower lip. “I can…barely move. Gonna need…a touch more effort from you…if I’m to enjoy you the way I want…”

Crowley shook his head, beyond trying to bargain or deceive, only wanting to keep his eyes closed and pretend he was somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

“No? Still playing coy? Fine. Let me try something.”

From where they were joined, Crowley felt a surge of infernal magic, invading his body as surely as Azazel’s cock was doing. Blood rushed to his abused sex, bringing with it an overwhelming wave of heat, something that within seconds was building, sharpening, focusing on his most sensitive nerves and _dragging_ him to an apex…

With no buildup and no physical pleasure to accompany it, the rush of his orgasm was sickening, leaving his back arching and his hips bucking in sheer reflexive panic. His fingers, still twined with Azazel’s, flexed and tore at the flesh of the demon’s knuckles, desperate to offset some of the unbearable sensation. 

“ _Better_ ,” Azazel groaned, his thrusts picking up a steadier pace. “Let’s do that again, shall we?”

“No,” Crowley pleaded, “please, no, I don’t like it, I don’t-“

“I…nnngh…like it enough for both of us.” Azazel’s tongue, burning hot, flicked at his ear, danced over his tattoo. “Come for me again, gorgeous…let me see it…”

The second orgasm took him and Crowley’s vision whited out. He was dimly aware of himself screaming through his gritted teeth and twisting his hands in Azazel’s grip, but everything lower was just a blur of sensation as his nerves begged for things to start making sense again.

When he came around Azazel was panting, his lightning-storm eyes inches from Crowley’s own. 

“Good…good,” he snarled. “There you go, getting all wet for me…pretty little _whore_ …”

With horror Crowley realized Azazel was right. He could feel the ease with which the demon’s cock was now pumping into him, setting a steady pace which forced the breath from Crowley’s body with each roll forward.

“Satan, are you _crying_?”

Azazel’s breathless laugh was accompanied by an agonizingly hard thrust, and Crowley bit his lip to keep from sobbing until he tasted blood.

“You _are_. Oh, you poor…lost… _thing_ …What kind of demon are you?”

“S-sorry,” Crowley whimpered. “M’sorry, please…sss-stop…”

“Almost there.” Through their joined hands, Crowley could feel tremors moving through Azazel’s body as the demon chased his climax. “Would be done already…if you weren’t so…difficult…”

“Sorry…so sorry…”

“Sniveling like this. Ought to really give you something to cry about.”

“I’m-“

“Say you’re sorry again and I’ll tear out your throat.” Azazel bared his dripping teeth, and Crowley bit back his latest apology and just let the tears roll freely from his eyes.

“Pathetic…crying little whore…I should…oh, _yessss_ …”

Azazel’s hips stuttered in their rhythm, his cock pulsed inside Crowley’s aching cunt, and his hands tightened on Crowley’s so hard he felt the bones of their fingers grind together.

Off in the corners, over by the door, Crowley could hear distant voices, tones of disgust, amusement, envy. 

There was a final drag inside as Azazel pulled out of him. The crushing pressure on his thighs and hips was lifted, and his hands were released. Trembling, Crowley dared to open his eyes. Azazel towered over him, sweat-streaked, pulling his trousers back into place, heedless of the casual ring of observers they’d attracted.

A disappointed frown played about the big demon’s features.

“Well, Crowley,” he sighed. “All I can say is, if you don’t toughen up-“

He snatched up Crowley’s hand from where it had crept between his legs, trying to cover himself.

“-you can expect a _lot_ more where this came from.”

Azazel seized the three longest fingers on Crowley’s hand and bent them back, back, back, so quickly Crowley barely had time to register what was happening.

“Remember, pretty thing. It’s Hell. Things can _always_ get worse.”

The _snap_ as Crowley’s fingers broke was almost inaudible over the snickering from the spectators. Crowley, throat already scraped raw, could only emit a strained sort of keening as the blinding pain shot all the way up his arm.

And then…

Then…

He was alone. Azazel got up and left him on the floor, moving seamlessly into a conversation with the knot of observers by the doorway. The other occupants of the room returned to their own activities, ignoring Crowley, who huddled his torn clothing around him and curled up into a ball, his injured hand cradled against his chest.

_Toughen up, you need to toughen up, they’re watching._

The effects of the wine Azazel had drugged him with were still hindering his powers, leaving him unable to heal or miracle himself away. The only option would be to limp out of this place, battered and torn, through the festivities in the great hall and out into the carousing hordes outside.

Or wait here, shivering on these pillows that still smelled of his attack, and hope his powers returned before someone else took an interest in him.

Slowly, shakily, Crowley got to his feet, rearranging his robes the best he could to cover himself. When one of the demons in the corner whistled, Crowley hissed at them, and while the threat was met with mocking laughter, he was not stopped on his way out.

Head down, guard up, Crowley began to make his slow way out of Hell, his bruised sex and broken fingers throbbing in time with his pounding, furious heart.


	2. 2018 A.D.

The memories faded, and over time so did the fears they brought. But not all at once.

First to go was his fear of going back to Hell. Well, it had to. Business was business, and Crowley knew putting it off would just make it all the worse when he finally had no choice. So he swallowed his terror and humiliation and presented at the next staff meeting like nothing had happened. There was a good amount of ribbing from his peers, those who’d seen and those who’d heard about it. Did Crowley really fall for Azazel’s old “special wine” trick, really, where _had_ Crowley been, _everyone_ knew about that one. It was good for a few laughs, and then they had moved on, and as Crowley began to dedicate himself to bringing his own creative flair to his work he began to become known for that, and not as the demon that had made that embarrassing spectacle of himself at that party last century. So that was tolerable.

His aversion to drink, and drinking in public, had also been swiftly conquered. He still wanted to drink, and _very_ much still wanted to drink in the company of a certain angel. The first few times were dodgy, and cut abruptly short when Crowley needed to make his excuses, retreat to somewhere private, and sick up everything he had drunk while the memories washed over him. Eventually that had stopped, though, and soon enough plenty of good drinking memories overlaid the one bad one, until alcohol became just another pleasant distraction.

Compliments were difficult. Certain words. Anyone who dared to call him “pretty” over the next two-thousand years quickly found themselves waking up with an inexplicable gap in their memory where a red-haired, black-clad cypher hovered at the edges. Crowley lived in fear of Aziraphale saying something like that, forcing Crowley to hear the words he hated from the lips of the only person he really cared to listen to. But the angel was perceptive, or perhaps merely lucky, and Crowley never found himself tested in that way. For the most part.

Other memories faded in time, and over the centuries he found himself adopting old habits- wearing his hair long, wearing a female Effort, going anywhere outside his earthly home without a weapon- that he’d originally thought he’d never feel safe doing again.

The one thing that remained, burned into his mind as surely as his tattoo was inked onto his skin, was the feel of Azazel’s hands. Fingers laced with Crowley’s, holding him down, keeping him utterly helpless.

Luckily, hand-holding was among the easiest things for Crowley to avoid, even on the rare occasions where the remote possibility presented itself. Marvelous invention, pockets.

He’d toughened up. He was fine.

Until one day, after it all. After Armageddon, after Tadfield and the Four Horsemen, after their trials and choosing their faces wisely and lunch at the Ritz, Crowley and Aziraphale had ended up on their usual park bench. It was very late, and they were both just a bit drunk, and they’d been making excuses not to go home since the sun had begun to set. 

It had been like this more and more often for the two of them. This reluctance to part ways at the end of the night (or was it the start of the morning, by this point?). Sometimes, in a haze of good wine and fine feeling, Crowley could see a future where he followed the angel home, or was followed himself. Could see a door shutting, with the two of them behind it. Could see a kiss, or maybe a bit more than a kiss, if one of them was brave enough to cross that threshold.

So far, neither of them had been. But it was a cool night, and the park was empty, and gradually, imperceptibly, Aziraphale had started to move closer to him on the bench. Crowley was sprawled in his usual fashion, one arm draped across the back, and the angel was sitting close enough to be tucked into the circle of Crowley’s arm. They weren’t touching, Crowley wasn’t actually _holding_ him, but his arm was most definitely _around_ him. So that was pleasantly distracting.

Crowley said something to make Aziraphale laugh, and the angel tipped his head back and sighed contentedly, and then, as quickly and gracefully as a bird alighting on a branch, he reached up and took Crowley’s hand where it rested just behind his shoulder, laced their fingers together, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

And then…

Then…

The cool night air grew stifling, heavy with the smell of sweat and sex. The slats of the bench behind his back became satin over stone, slipping beneath him as his body was moved against his will. Aziraphale’s voice, first casual, then growing concerned, became that _other_ voice, reminding him things could always get worse.

His hand. He needed to get his hand free.

Crowley snatched his arm away from the angel and lurched up to his feet, whirling around as Aziraphale goggled comically from the bench. 

“Crowley? Are you all right?” Aziraphale’s voice was playfully guarded, as if he suspected the demon might be up to some sort of mischief.

“Fine,” Crowley snapped, jamming his hands in his pockets where they belonged. Where they were safe. “It’s late. Should be getting home.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” The confusion in Aziraphale’s voice was plain, as was the hurt at Crowley’s rejection, and Crowley felt a wild stab of guilt and tried to soften his voice.

“Just tired, is all. Didn’t realize how long we’d been out here. Call me this weekend, yeah?”

“I will,” Aziraphale promised. “Crowley, I’m…I’m sorry if-“

“Nothing to be sorry for, angel. See you soon.” Crowley was already walking away, waving vaguely over his shoulder, while Aziraphale sat forlornly on the bench and watched him go.

Crowley’s fingers throbbed the whole way back to his flat. When he finally got inside, he double-locked the door, went straight to bed, pulled the covers over his head and cried until his stomach hurt.

That weekend, he saw Aziraphale again. The angel did not try to touch him.

——

What set them back also pushed them forward.

Aziraphale would not make such a move again, Crowley knew. The angel was smart enough to see a line that could not be crossed, and had likely been himself wounded by Crowley’s reaction. Which, in a way, made things easier. Now Crowley was certain it would have to be him who made the first move. And the guilt over rejecting Aziraphale was a healthy motivator for him to put this nonsense behind him once and for all.

So a few weeks later, as they strolled through the streets of London on a Sunday morning, Aziraphale chattering about the oddities in the shop windows and Crowley slinking beside him, the demon took a deep breath and reached out to grasp the angel’s hand.

Aziraphale’s voice faltered briefly as he glanced over at Crowley, then the angel smiled shyly and laced their fingers together.

They walked. It was fine. Crowley was _fine_. Aziraphale’s hand, soft and warm, felt _nothing_ like Azazel’s. 

_Well, of course it doesn’t. He’s only got the one of your hands, right now. And he’s not holding you down. You could still get away, if you needed to._

It didn’t matter, because Aziraphale would never hurt him. It was _holding hands_ for Heaven’s sake, there was absolutely no reason for him to be afraid.

_What kind of demon are you?_

“Crowley? Is something wrong?”

_You’re upsetting him, act normal, it’s just a hand, it’s nothing, try to enjoy it._

_Try…_

“I’m fine, angel.”

“You’re clearly not, my dear. Would you wait a moment?”

_It was such a long time ago, you’re being ridiculous, stop sniveling, you pathetic little-_

“Crowley, that _hurts_!”

The angel’s voice, sharpened by alarm, finally cut through the haze in Crowley’s mind. As their surroundings snapped back into place, Crowley realized he had Aziraphale’s hand in a panicked, crushing grip, and had been more or less dragging the angel behind him for the past few blocks.

At the sight of Aziraphale’s wide, puzzled eyes, Crowley let go immediately, nearly collapsing under the guilt and shame that crashed over him. 

“Sorry, angel, I’m sorry, I’m being so stupid, I’m ss-ss-“

“Crowley?” Aziraphale spoke slowly, carefully, the way one might to a toddler who was holding a knife. “Would it be alright with you if I brought us somewhere more private?”

Crowley looked around at the passers-by, some of whom were curiously glancing their way, and nodded. Aziraphale, moving with exaggerated care, reached out and put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder. 

The air shimmered, and they were standing alone in the bookshop.

“Bit conspicuous, don’t you think?” Crowley said, trying to smooth out the tremor from his voice. “Vanishing in the middle of a crowded street like that?”

“I wouldn’t worry. Everyone near us miraculously received very compelling text messages just now. I doubt anyone noticed,” Aziraphale replied, clearly determined not to let Crowley change the subject. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what that was about, back there?”

Crowley really, really didn’t. But Aziraphale had been patient enough with him as it was. The least he deserved was an explanation for why Crowley was behaving like such an idiot.

“Erm. Well.” Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets. “It’s kind of a long story. Well, not _long_ , but it happened a long time ago, really, I can barely remember it. But. You remember, um, 33 A.D., was it? Back when that poor chap from Nazareth was, y’know, turned off?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips in disapproval at Crowley’s choice of words, but nodded.

“Yeah, well, there was a big celebration in Hell that night. Real Heironymus Bosch stuff, right? Not my scene, to be honest, but I had to at least make an appearance. And there was this…this one demon.” Crowley couldn’t say his name. “High-ranking sort. Influential. Liked to pull this, um, sort of prank on those of us lower on the pecking order. I suppose if I’d been around more, I would have known about it ahead of time, seems like he had a sort of reputation for it. So it was really mostly my fault.”

“A…prank.” Aziraphale sat down in one of the reading chairs littered about the shop, inviting Crowley to do the same.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, taking a seat. “Did something funny to the wine he shared with me, messed my head up a bit, shut my powers down. Nothing permanent. But he got me alone before it could wear off, well, not _alone_ , there were…other people around, sort of, but they didn’t- no one else-“

He was having trouble breathing, his words coming in uneven bursts. Aziraphale leaned forward, concerned, but Crowley waved him away and continued.

“Anyway, he got me alone, and- I mean, I suppose that’s why he slipped me the wine in the first place, or maybe he was just waiting for the first person stupid enough to fall for it- but he got me into this room with him, and, well…”

He looked up, hoping Aziraphale would understand where he was going with this, without him having to elaborate further. His stomach sank at the expression on the angel’s face; it was patient, and caring, and heartbreakingly confused.

“What happened?” he asked, honestly still thinking he wanted the answer. Crowley had to take a few deep breaths before resuming.

“Really, hardly anything, I told you, it was such a long time ago. I barely even remember it, I was so messed-up from the wine, he just…did what came naturally, right? Not like I could stop him, so why not- why not have a go at-“

_You will not cry you will not disgrace yourself again you won’t YOU WON’T-_

Through his blurring eyes he could see horrified understanding dawning on the angel’s face, and despite the hurt he knew he was causing he was grateful to see it. Maybe now they could put this whole stupid thing behind them.

“Really, I should have just gone along with it, but I was stupid, I tried to get away, so he held- held me down- my hands, and-“ he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, “The rest of it’s gone away, mostly, but he- afterwards, when he was…finished, he- he broke my fingers and- maybe that’s why that part sticks with me, makes no bloody sense, I was able to heal them by morning…”

He had to stop, had to focus on getting enough air into his lungs, and an oppressive silence fell over the bookshop as he buried his face in his hands. When he finally got himself under control, he peeked at Aziraphale through his fingers.

The angel’s face was a wreck of emotions. He looked just on the verge of crying himself, and Crowley felt another twist of shame.

_You did that you made him cry that’s how pathetic you are._

“Oh, Crowley, that’s-“ Aziraphale’s voice shook. “How awful for you. I’m…I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be, it really was nothing.”

“ _Nothing_? You just told me you were-“

“I bloody well know what I just told you!” Crowley snapped. “It’s _fine_. It’s _over_ , I put it behind me, I just…I just don’t like to hold hands, alright? I’m sorry, I’m sorry I can’t be a normal…whatever it is we are, but if you’re going to make a big deal about it-“

“Crowley-“

“Oh, _stop it_ , would you? Stop saying my name over and over like I’m some bloody child throwing a tantrum, you _asked_ me to tell you what was wrong. So now you know, alright, now you know what’s wrong with me, happy?”

He threw himself back in his chair, arms folded over his chest, thoroughly sick with himself.

Aziraphale appeared to take a few moments to compose himself, examining his fingernails and taking deep, steady breaths. When he looked back up at Crowley his face held only care and patience once again, whatever ugly emotions Crowley had stirred up banished as if they’d never been.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, my dear,” he began. “And I’m truly sorry if I ever made you feel that way.”

Crowley was about to say _It’s fine_ again, but stopped himself. Aziraphale was doing him a favor, here, taking this embarrassing incident upon himself when Crowley should be the one apologizing. The least Crowley could do was not lie to him.

“Thank you,” he said instead. “I. Um. Appreciate that.”

“And honestly, we don’t have to hold hands if you don’t want, Crowley. We don’t have to do _anything_ you don’t want. I do hope you know that.”

“But I do…want,” Crowley whispered. “Angel, I really do, I want you to- to touch me, I just _can’t_ , not yet.”

“Then we won’t. Simple as that.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Crowley was grateful to Aziraphale for saying it, even though he knew it wasn’t true. He had plenty to be sorry for, and plenty of making up to do, and someday, he promised himself, he would. 

He would get better. He would put it all behind him. It was only a matter of time.


End file.
